Say What You Will
by Bladelover
Summary: Rodney discovers he has an unusual ability...


_A/N: I don't own this universe or these characters, nor profit from this story in any way, save just having a whole lot of fun writing all snarky and stuff._

He knew something was wrong the moment he awakened. Clearing his throat produced a raspy sound like wind through dry leaves, and an attempt to complain about the situation yielded nothing that sounded like a human voice, or even like words.

Rodney McKay had laryngitis.

It was a tough decision whether to rush to the infirmary or eat breakfast first. He was very hungry, of course, and there was always the possibility that the lubrication of food and drink would improve the situation. On the other hand, it might not, and if he waited to seek medical intervention, he would only be delaying the cure.

He made a beeline for the infirmary.

"Rodney, it's nothing to get upset about," Carson said, displaying his usual lack of comprehension of the situation. "You've a minor cold, that's all. You can go about your normal business. Your voice'll come back soon enough."

Easy for him to say, since Rodney couldn't say _anything._

He'd consoled himself with a hearty breakfast after that, but unfortunately, it didn't have the hoped-for effect – he still couldn't speak. Naturally, this was taken lightly by those who were incapable of appreciating the true gravity of the situation.

"If you have any objection to me stealing this muffin from your plate," Sheppard said, suiting action to word as he sprawled in a chair across the table, "speak now, or forever hold your peace."

Rodney's glare would have been _so_ much more effective accompanied by a stream of searing words. Alone, it was simply fuel for Sheppard's gleeful grin. He bit into the stolen muffin. "Cheer up, McKay. The city gets a break from your constant complaints, and you get a chance to think up some new ones. It's a win-win."

Standing up, Rodney drilled him with a final venomous glare before picking up his tray and leaving the table.

Sheppard just didn't get it. Nobody did.

Zelenka and the other scientists in his lab made a great show of enjoying the absence of Rodney's tough-but-fair criticism, which as far as he was concerned only showed that they were both deserving of said criticism and aware of that fact. He marshaled every bit of his considerable self-restraint to _not_ try to scream at them, even though they clearly needed to be taken to task. But his larynx needed rest even more.

It was absolutely vital that his voice return as soon as possible.

When the inevitable crisis began, it was worse than he'd expected. "Rodney? Rodney… something seems to be wrong with the ZPM." Zelenka's voice held a note of fear, fear that would have seemed inappropriate to the situation to someone who didn't realize that the ZPM was the only thing standing between Atlantis and a death worse than anything ever conceived of by the human mind. At least, by human minds that had grown up on Earth.

The readings were unmistakable. The ZPM had clearly lost some of its charge, and recently. There was no immediately apparent explanation for the drain, and more importantly, no one could see how to make it stop. Rodney let his shoulders sag. The situation going from bad to worse, he had expected; from bad to worst-case-scenario, not so much.

The news quickly spread, and a ripple of unease ran through the city's population. Sure, they weren't under attack at the moment, and the long-range sensors showed no imminent threat, but everyone was terribly aware that their only ability to survive an attack lay with having a ZPM that could power the city's cloak and shield and drone chair.

He'd really wanted to be left alone with it for a while, not because he really had any great ideas, but just because the very act of listening to the prattling of others was greatly increasing his distress at not being able to express himself. Unfortunately, just when he'd finally managed to drive off Zelenka with a particularly nasty sneer, along came Elizabeth and Colonel Muffin-Thief. Great. This was really going to help.

"Any progress, Rodney?" Elizabeth's question was full of hope-against-hope. He really wished he could say yes.

Then again, if he could say _anything,_ they wouldn't be in this mess.

He'd discovered it quite by accident. One day, he and Zelenka had been testing the ZPM. Since they knew it was their one hope to survive a Wraith attack, there was a certain amount of pressure, a huge amount of tension. The tension only escalated when they discovered that the module was slowly losing power. They did every test they could think of, but just couldn't pinpoint the problem, nor find a way to plug whatever hole was allowing the power to drain.

He supposed it was only natural that Zelenka kept doing stupid things and making irritating remarks, and he knew for sure that it was only natural that he himself lost patience. What had started as a mere retort had spun and gained momentum like a boulder rolling downhill until it was a full-blown ranting tirade. A totally deserved one, of course, but Zelenka seemed to feel otherwise. He'd starting cursing in Czech, thrown his tools to the floor, and stomped out of the room.

That was when Rodney had noticed that the ZPM's power level had increased.

Not by a lot. It was a measurable difference, but not a significant one. It didn't make any sense, of course, but then, what the hell else made _sense_ about those wacky Ancients and their various technologies?

While he was alone, he performed a few tests. He pretended Zelenka was still there and continued to yell at him. Then he thought of Kavanagh and proceeded to tell the ZPM exactly what he thought of _that_ moron. Then he waxed eloquent on the wisdom and basic intelligence of military personnel in general and a certain newly-promoted colonel in particular.

The ZPM had gained more power still.

In a short time, he came to realize that with enough, um, self-expression, he was able to make up for the "leak" in the module. He further came to realize that he did not have to be standing in the same room with the ZPM for his words to have this effect. It seemed to work whether he was in his lab, in the control room, or out on a balcony. As long as he was in the city, Atlantis seemed to convert the "power" in his critical statements into power for the ZPM.

It was both incredibly liberating and a huge burden. On the one hand, he now felt free not only to express every less than complimentary thought and opinion that happened to cross his mind, it was almost his _duty,_ seeing as how it was plugging the energy leak in their one and only hope of powering their cloak and shield. On the other hand, he constantly worried that he wasn't doing _enough,_ that he was falling behind the energy leak, or that the leak might suddenly increase. He actually found himself waking up in the middle of the night, convinced that the ZPM was bleeding out, and dashing through the sleeping corridors of Atlantis to check on it.

But it was always okay, always at about the same level as the last time he'd checked. The only time he ever found it lower was right after they'd engaged the shield or cloak for some reason. No one ever suspected that the frantic increases in his impatient tirades afterward came not from pent-up nervous tension but from a need to replenish what he could until the _next_ time the ZPM was needed… or until they found a new one.

But now, here he was, unable to create the finger of words that could be shoved into the dyke of escaping energy; forced to watch as the power ebbed, more and more…

"Is this problem related to the energy drain that you and Dr. Zelenka fixed before?" Elizabeth asked him. Rodney nodded and tilted his head, to indicate that yes, he thought it was. There was no point in trying to pantomime the _truth,_ even if he were inclined to tell it.

"What happened? Warranty run out already?" cracked Sheppard.

Rodney thought a few choice things about the colonel's maturity level, the quality of his sense of humor, and the fact that he was hardly in a position to criticize _him_ or any of the other scientists, if the only contribution he could make was some lame snark-wannabe jokes that were so obvious they'd only be laughed at by twelve-year-olds.

Trying to convey the full range of these thoughts with his facial expression was ultimately just frustrating, so Rodney turned his attention back to the ZPM, hoping that both of the annoying non-scientists so erroneously gifted with the power of speech would take the non-verbal hint and vacate. He had _work_ to do, after all, even if they didn't. Most likely, Sheppard was…

Rodney stopped and frowned, cocked his head, frowned harder, and moved closer to the ZPM.

"What is it, Rodney?" Honest to God, could Elizabeth not understand the futility of asking non- yes/no questions of someone who couldn't goddamned _talk?_ But that was hardly even an important thought.

The ZPM. Had regained. Some power.

Not much, just like the first time he'd noticed this phenomenon. But how had it happened? It wasn't anything he'd _said, _obviously. And it's not like he was mistaken about the effect his critical speeches had on the ZPM; he'd tested the theory thoroughly. And the only thing he was able to do at the moment was think…

Oh, dear God! That was it!

He slapped his forehead, unable to believe he hadn't thought of this before. Whatever link he had with this machine that enabled him to replenish it undoubtedly had something to do with the ATA gene. And therefore, it was asinine to think that it was his spoken words that were fueling it up; the gene allowed him to activate Ancient technology with _thoughts._ Why the hell _wouldn't_ thinking his displeasure serve the same function as giving vent to them verbally?

"Ya wanna let us in on whatever genius-moment you're having here, McKay?"

It was the perfect moment for Sheppard to speak. Rodney beamed at him and thought about how ridiculous his hair was.

And then he wondered why the Air Force let him get away with such a glaringly non-military hairstyle.

Then he wondered if there was anything more stupid than passing the MENSA test and not joining the organization.

He smirked as he envisioned Sheppard showing up every day for a stick-session with Teyla, racking up new bruises upon old ones as she kicked his ass again and again.

His mind began racing now, turning up every uncharitable thing he'd ever thought about Sheppard and everyone else on Atlantis. He ignored Sheppard's and Elizabeth's inquiries into what he was thinking, putting his hand to his head and pacing as he churned out the insulting mental diatribes that the city so desperately needed. He was almost out of material (temporarily, of course; this was a well that never went dry permanently) when he finally heard Zelenka's voice.

"What… what has happened? Rodney, the ZPM has somehow charged back to its previous level! What did you do?"

Smiling in what he hoped was his most cryptic manner, Rodney merely shrugged, as if to indicate, _Hey, I'm a genius, it's what I do._ After which, he strutted out of the room and hurried to the commissary to treat himself to whatever they had. Possibly one of _everything_ they had. After all, he deserved it. He deserved a lot more than that, actually.

The next day, he was having a leisurely breakfast, his heart light and his voice on the mend. True, it was raspy and prone to cutting out, but then, he was no longer as desperate for speech as he had been yesterday.

This latest revelation had taken a load from his shoulders. Now that he knew that he could merely _think_ his scorching criticisms and still charge the ZPM, he felt much more relaxed about this responsibility. As long as he could think, he could keep their ZPM at the ready.

In fact, he could almost forego venting verbally entirely.

"All right, McKay." Suddenly, Sheppard was parked across the table, eyeing him with a suspicion that made him look downright silly. "I read that report on how you fixed the ZPM, and I don't mind admitting that it read like an alien language to me. Now, I know you're a genius and all that crap, but even Rodney the Magnificent can't charge a ZPM without even _touching_ it. So," and here he reached over and quite brazenly stole Rodney's toast from his tray, "give it up. What was the trick? How'd ya do it?"

A multitude of unflattering thoughts immediately fought for first-in-line status in Rodney's mind; questions about Sheppard's intellect, his genetics, and even how he managed to become an officer. There was no shortage of material for meeting today's ZPM quota, that was for sure.

Yes, he could almost forego venting verbally. But where was the fun in that?

Eyes glinting, mouth twisting crookedly, Rodney swallowed a bite of scrambled egg and opened his mouth to speak.


End file.
